Courting Her Highness_ The Story of Queen Anne - Jean Plaidy [95]
George’s asthma was troubling him more than ever, which meant that his night’s sleep was often broken; he dozed more frequently during the day and perhaps this was as well, for he had become such a staunch admirer of the Freemans since Blenheim that he might not have appreciated some of Mr. Harley’s wit.
It was not that it was exactly aimed at Marlborough and his Duchess, but somehow they were included in it; and Anne, in spite of her desire to be loyal to her dearest friend, had to recognize the truth of some of Mr. Harley’s comments.
Mr. Harley was so devoted to the Church, and anyone who cared so much for the spiritual well-being of the nation was Anne’s friend. Dear Mrs. Freeman had never been reverent; in fact sometimes Anne had feared that she was almost irreligious; so how pleasant it was to listen to a clever politician talk with such reverence for the Church!
“The Church,” said Mr. Harley, “could be in danger from certain elements in this country. I am sure Your Majesty would want above all else to keep it strong and aloof from conflict.”
“It would be my first consideration, Mr. Harley.”
“I knew it.”
“And you really think that the Church is being put in jeopardy in … certain quarters?”
“I think this may be so, and when I have some proof of this I shall crave permission to set it before Your Majesty.”
“I pray you will without delay.”
He talked to her about the glorious age which was opening out for England. There were certain times in a country’s history, he said, which were known as glorious ages. The Elizabethan age had been one; and now there was another glorious Queen on the throne and the glory of the age was becoming apparent through the literature of the times.
There were some in the country who sought to suppress this. One of the greatest writers of the age was at this moment languishing in prison.
Who was this? Anne wanted to know.
It was Daniel Defoe. A charge had been trumped up against him. An age which imprisoned its great writers was defeating itself.
Anne wanted to hear more about Daniel Defoe, and Harley talked of him—his brilliance, his wit, his works. He told how the people had been angered when he was set in the pillory, how they had garlanded him with flowers, had drunk his health and set a guard about him.
Anne listened, indignant.
It was well she had Mr. Harley to visit her informally and let her know everything that was going on, for there was much of importance that was kept from a ruler.
Harley was delighted with his discovery of the new relationship. He hoped Abigail Hill understood how important it was. He was certain she did, for there was subtlety behind that demure smile. She had her part to play in this. She was very necessary to him; he never lost a chance of telling her so. His gaze was caressing and Abigail was a little bewildered. He fascinated her, as more than a cousin or a conspirator—for she was well aware that this was a conspiracy. She had never met such a man before. She knew that he was overwhelmingly ambitious, that he was determined to be at the head of the Government, to rule the country; and it was the most flattering thing that had ever happened to her to be selected as his partner. She could not understand her emotions; she was less calm than before and although she hid her excitement she believed that she did not completely succeed as far as he was concerned. He was deferential towards her. Who before had ever been deferential to Abigail Hill, except Samuel Masham? She had shelved that matter for she was too excited by Robert Harley to think very much about Samuel Masham at this time. He paid her delicate compliments—even about her appearance. She was different from the pretty dolls with their paint and their powder and their